


Yet We Endure

by SweetSorcery



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Canon Het Relationship, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friendship/Love, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Incest, Loss, M/M, Male Slash, Sibling Incest, Sibling Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-16 00:01:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/855481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetSorcery/pseuds/SweetSorcery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some wounds never heal. Some loves never end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yet We Endure

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All canon referred to within belongs to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien and the keepers of the LOTR movie rights. All fannish additions were created for non-profit, non-infringement entertainment.
> 
> Archiving: Nowhere except here, and not in translated form either.
> 
> Author's Notes: This was written quite a few years ago now, after the LOTR movie trilogy was released. Please note that as far as I stick to canon at all, my stories are movie-based, and book-discrepancies are bound to happen a lot.

Éowyn oft watches me in silence, and it unsettles me. She has keen eyes and a sharp mind, and I can no more deceive her than I can deceive myself. And I do not wish to deceive her; she deserves so much more: a husband who worships her, and her alone, and whose every waking thought is of her. One who longs first and foremost to hold her in his arms. One whose heart beats only for her - not for anything, nor anyone, else.

I hold her often, but my eyes stray over her head as she clings to me. Even as I breathe the sweet flower scent of her golden hair, I search for that vague spirit image I no longer see merely in my dreams. While I embrace her, I feel the form of that spirit - even while he stands there across the room - in my arms.

I kiss her often, but my eyes are shut tight and my mouth on hers is too hard and too ungentle, for I imagine that the lips I am kissing are firmer than hers and the one they belong to more passionate than she.

I gaze at her with love, but my eyes lose focus more and more quickly as her face swims into another shape, her eyes turn green and her hair darkens, and I always avert my eyes before a mischievous smile so unlike her own fully takes shape before my deluded eyes.

* * *

I have never recovered after we left the Houses of Healing, and I doubt I ever will. I am drained of energy and listless. I fulfill my duties adequately, but can do no more. It takes all my strength to give smiles where they are expected and encouragement where it is warranted.

As though I was an invalid, Éowyn takes me for gentle, slow walks in the early evenings. Her hand slides around my arm and rests there as if holding on for strength, but I believe we both know it is she who gives strength to me. I sometimes wonder if I could put one foot before the other without her support.

She talks while we walk, of anything and everything, as though desperate to find a topic which might engage me. And I wish I could oblige. I do. I want to see her smile, to be able to give her some hope that perhaps one day, I might be the husband I should be to her.

Sometimes, though not often, she asks me about Boromir.

Her eyes watch me carefully while I recount a childhood memory, or one of his many brave deeds. I speak to her of Boromir until she changes the subject, and then, once her keen eyes are averted again, I finally allow the tears to fall in silence.

She asked me only once whether I missed him terribly, and I could not reply. Her hand tightened on my arm, squeezing it gently.

* * *

The day our son was born, I felt almost happy. I walked into the room, sat beside Éowyn on the bed, and took him from her arms. My smile died on my lips.

His eyes were green, like the river Anduin on the cusp of spring. And my own eyes filled with tears.

"Faramir?" she asked with concern.

"Forgive me," I stammered, clutching my son close. "I am overwhelmed."

She nodded and smiled sadly.

* * *

Years pass by, and yet, in my mind, time is frozen. Surely, Boromir left for Rivendell only yesterday. And surely, he died only last night. My grief remains only one day old - a wound which does not heal, a cut that will never close.

Éowyn continues to nurse my soul back to health but, inevitably, she must fail. Her bandages are comfort, companionship and sensitivity, but there can be only one cure. That cure is no longer of this world. And time is cruel enough to keep me from it, letting me fester in my infection.

I deserve no less. I never should have inflicted this on Éowyn. I should have known, from the beginning, that I could not offer what she sought.

I love her. I love the brave and beautiful son she bore me. I love her stubbornness, her kindness, and her understanding. I love her strength and her heart. I love her for keeping safe some semblance of sanity for me, for without her, there would be nothing to anchor my mind in reality. So when I tell her that I love her, I mean it.

"I know," she says, clutching my hand. "I know, Faramir." But she looks so sad.

I try to force some happy memory back into my heart to conjure a smile, but I know I fail when she says, "Your lips smile, Faramir. But your eyes never do."

"Forgive me." I break down and cry, and she holds me and anchors me once again.

"Do not distress yourself," she whispers as she strokes my hair. "I knew the nature of your love from the start." A soft kiss to my temple. "It is enough, Faramir."

I cling to her until sleep overcomes me, and I dream of not waking up again.

* * *

I begin to watch her more closely. I begin to see that her smiles glisten with unshed tears. And I wonder whether the sad edge to her happiness is entirely my doing. And eventually, I realise that she too drifts away on dreams when we embrace; that her eyes do not always see, and her hands not always touch, me. There is a grief in her heart as well, though it is different to my own. Different enough for me not to have noticed it before.

Her perceived strength sometimes fails her. And the cause is not always my own weakness. More and more frequently, I find myself supporting her as we go for our walks. I try to share her burden, as she has been sharing mine. And I learn which things I should not speak of, if I do not wish to see her eyes darken or her lips tremble.

To know that she suffers as I do is no comfort to me. To know that her heart is not entirely mine, as mine is not hers, merely makes me want to heal her as she has been seeking to heal me.

We carry on like that: two wounded soldiers staggering toward the edge of a battlefield as large as the world itself, supporting each other as best we can. The war in which Éowyn and I are embroiled is not like the war for the One Ring. Our war continues, and will continue until the day we die. Only then can there be victory celebrations, for only then can there be reunions.

It lessens the burden to know we need not pretend. We can share as much love as we are able to; and all the love we can spare, and more, we pour into our son. But we can also share our desperation and our tears. We do not speak of the losses which grieve us, but when we dry each other's tears and see our ghosts in each other's eyes, we do understand. For the rest of this life, that must be enough.

 

End


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